Sam Murray looked at her, and his gaze narrowed a little.
‘She was a madam,’ he said bluntly. ‘Ran a high-class ring. Clean girls with tests and certifications.’
Lisa blinked. ‘Certifications? Like animals at the vet?’
‘Exactly like that,’ Sam said unapologetically. ‘You’re paying top dollar. Thousands a night. And for that money, you don’t want to worry about disease. AIDS isn’t crabs, it’ll kill you.’
Lisa bristled, out there in the street, with the cars streaming behind her. Why the fuck did she care? But she did.
‘So you’re paying for sex?’ she said. ‘You, the great Sam Murray, playboy, famous journo, man about town . . . and you pay for it?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t like hurting women. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I need regular sex. Paying a girl is one way to guarantee you won’t break her heart.’
‘God, you’re full of yourself,’ Lisa said. ‘If a woman isn’t with you, her heart’s going to break?’
‘Not all of them. Not most of them. But I try not to use girls. Prostitution’s an honest transaction.’
She was getting angry. ‘Yeah, real honest. Girls who are addicted to drugs, trafficked sometimes. Like they can help it.’
‘Ah,’ he said, unfazed. ‘That’s exactly why you go to a high-class madam, see? The girls she works with are certified not just AIDS-free but drug-free too. You don’t want a chick who’s using needles. They’re bored college girls, usually, or actresses who don’t want to live on next to nothing. They have prospects and health. Guys will pay good money for that, lots of money.’
‘Because it takes away the guilt factor?’
‘Exactly. She may be sleazy, but she’s not desperate and she’s not addicted. She’s making a clear choice to fuck for money. You know that when you’ve got her underneath you. And you pay for it. Pure sex, zero emotion.’
Lisa fought for breath. He outraged her. And yet, logically, he made sense.
‘But sex should always have emotion,’ she said.
‘Says a woman.’ Sam shrugged. ‘That’s just not how guys think.’
Lisa shivered. She’d almost asked this guy to fuck her. Lucky escape. ‘You’re a real prince, you know that?’
He looked her straight in the eyes, like he always did, in that disconcerting way of his. ‘Listen, baby, judge away. The difference between me and other guys is that I’m honest. Those girls want to sell, and I want to buy. There’s nothing for you to be mad about.’
She could not hold his gaze. The thought of Sam Murray in bed with some eager, greedy little gold-digging college girl was dreadful. And the worst thing was, she actually envied those chicks. It’s just curiosity, she told herself. And you should not give in to it.
‘So anyway.’ She changed the subject. ‘You know this woman to be discreet?’
‘Exactly. And she’ll assume you’re my lover. Not a hooker this time, because she knows hookers, and she’ll know you’re not one. Just on instinct. But my girlfriend, she could buy.’
‘What does that involve?’
He shrugged. ‘Leaning on me, touching me. Kissing me at reception. We don’t have to tongue-wrestle, but she’ll ask the receptionist about us, so you need to be kissing me. Do you think you can fake some passion?’
Lisa nodded, biting her lip. The last thing on God’s earth she wanted to do right now was kiss Sam Murray. Yet she was going to have to.
He picked up her bag, along with his own, and she followed him into the guesthouse. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of sauerkraut and meat. She was hungry again. The receptionist was eyeing them up. She was maybe twenty-five, with a worldly air.
Sam fired off some German at her, and Lisa watched, trying not to be too impressed. For an American, he was pretty easy with languages. She found herself curious. Was he really this skilful? Apparently so. And that was more than anybody could expect from a tabloid hack. She understood that Sam Murray was way more than that.
He turned round, and crooked his finger, smiling. ‘I think they got a room. Come here, baby.’
Lisa forced a smile. Not hooker-ish this time, just warm. ‘Great.’ She walked over to Sam and nestled against him. It was much harder to do than it had been in Italy, at the motel. Just a single day later, and she already found herself falling. Fighting it, but falling all the same.
He slipped one arm around her waist, casually. The caress was cruel to Lisa. It burned on her skin. She felt the blood pool in her lower belly and her groin. A hot flush of wanting him ran across her. What the hell is wrong with you, girl? she asked herself. Just minutes ago he’d been casually describing how he used high-class call girls. With such male arrogance, such ruthlessness. How could she want him? Her body was a traitor.
But she did want him. And helpless against it, she sensed herself relaxing, pressing into him, returning the pressure of his arm.
Lisa blushed. Maybe he’ll assume it’s all part of the act, she thought.
Sam was still talking, but as she moved against him, he glanced at her. And as his eyes made contact, her body stiffened, her face blushed. She could feel her reactions coming from deep in her belly. Her lips parting, her pupils widening. Her heart rate sped up. And of course he could feel that, quite easily. One arm was circling her waist. His hand rested just below her left breast, on her ribcage, above the heart.
‘. . . sicher, und kann ich mit Frau Vollenhaus sprechen?’ he was asking, smiling casually. His eyes flickered over Lisa’s, and she hated the amusement she saw there. Then, indolent, experimentally, he splayed his fingers over her ribcage and began to caress her, tracing his fingers lightly against her skin, stroking the underside of her breast almost imperceptibly.
It was like an electric shock. Lisa gasped, then bit her lip to stop herself moaning aloud. A wave of lust rocked through her. She was trapped, and he knew it, and he did not propose to spare her. She tried to pull herself away from him, violently. But his arm tightened hard around her, his grip was iron. He looked at her, grinning, and shook his head very slightly.
There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A heavy-set woman was coming. Sam smiled again, luxuriating in his opportunity, and bent his head to Lisa’s, brushing his lips over hers. Kissing her, but not quite. And Lisa felt herself, despite all her will, surrendering, her mouth opening under his, her lips full and soft and yielding to him. Sam gently mixed his tongue against hers, running it against her upper lip, teasing the outer reaches of her mouth. Lisa felt her knees buckle. Helplessly she pressed herself against him. Her nipples tightened in her bra. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Oh God, she thought, I’m done, I’m so done . . .
‘Sam! It is so good to see you again, my darling.’ The woman was speaking English, heavily accented. Lisa reluctantly broke away from the kiss and nestled against Sam, shy, way too shy to actually look him in the face. ‘And who is this lovely creature?’
‘This is my girlfriend, Emily. I want someplace to hide out, Marianne,’ Sam was saying. ‘No passports, no bullshit. I got cash. Her husband’s a player. There are people looking for us.’
‘And nobody knows that game better than you.’
‘Exactly. Can you help a guy out?’
The woman smiled. ‘How many times you got the cops off my back, Sam? Of course.’ She looked at Lisa, and Lisa thought she saw a cold twinkle in the brown eyes sunk in the ageing face. Marianne Vollenhaus had seen lots of sun, lots of booze and lots of cigarettes, and it showed. Good make-up and an expensive hair-dye job could not hide the years of damage. Her eyes lingered on Sam, and Lisa suddenly realised the older woman was jealous. God, and she was forty-five on her best day. Had she carried a torch for Sam Murray? For how many years?
Marianne looked her over. ‘Come this way. You pay me, Sam. Discount for you. How long you wanna stay?’
He shrugged. ‘Three nights? We should be tired of each other after that.’
‘Just one hundred euros, then.’
‘Come on
, it’s more than that.’
‘Not to you, liebchen,’ she said.
Sam handed her two hundred and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Vielen Dank. Du bist meine Süsse,’ he said.
Frau Vollenhaus led them up a flight of wooden stairs covered in a well-trodden green runner. Lisa wondered if this was a brothel too. Old habits probably died hard, right? They moved into a corridor, which was narrow and poorly lit and smelled strongly of smoke. It was a dive, but at least it was relatively clean. She liked the surroundings. It was a house to get lost in.
‘Here.’ The older woman stopped outside Room 52 and handed Sam a giant metal key with a long steel tag. ‘This is a good room. Tucked away, like you say.’
‘Thanks, Marianne.’
‘Call if you need anything. We can make sandwiches, bring you beer. There are places to eat down the street.’
Sam pulled Lisa to him again, and she almost trembled. This woman was about to leave. She was going to be alone in a room with Sam Murray. And nobody there to stop him.
‘We won’t want to be disturbed. Thanks, though, Marianne. For everything.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Lisa added. Marianne looked back at her, and her smile did not reach her eyes.
‘I will leave the lovebirds to it,’ she said, and turned and plodded back the way they had come.
Lisa almost wanted to beg her to stay. Sam had the key and was turning it in the door lock, nice and easy. It opened, and he carried their bags into the room. There was a good queen bed, a nice size for a small European hotel. The place looked clean, and had a desk and a chair. She glanced into the bathroom; it was white-tiled and functional, and the towels were at least big enough to wrap around her midriff. She strongly suspected this was one of Frau Vollenhaus’s best rooms. There was not a lot of extra space around the bed; not many places to hide.
The door closed behind them and clicked shut with a thud. Lisa was intensely aware that they were now alone together.
She swallowed drily. Sam Murray was watching her, with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were on her. She felt herself growing moist and slippery between the legs. Her heart pulsed: panic, lust, a mixture.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to be casual. ‘That seemed to go fine. I mean, she buys I’m your girlfriend . . .’
‘Lisa,’ Sam said. And the heavy tone of his voice meant he knew that she was lost.
‘Sam . . .’ She lifted her eyes to him, protesting. ‘Don’t . . .’
‘It’s no good,’ he said softly, intently. ‘Is it?’
She opened her mouth, to argue, to say something. But nothing came out. Just a strangled sound, almost guttural.
‘Come here,’ he said insistently. ‘Now.’
Lisa walked round the bed towards him. Almost stumbling. She couldn’t look him in the face, she couldn’t force herself to meet his eyes. She was shy, her breath was ragged. That kiss . . . her mouth, her heart rate; her body had told him everything he needed to know.
There was no place to hide.
She was in front of him now. Her clothes felt heavy on her skin. Her jeans were clinging to her, the cotton of her bra was chafing against her nipples. He put his hands on her shoulders, and ran them down both sides of her ribcage, and Lisa heard herself gasp aloud with desire.
‘Look at me,’ Sam said.
She raised her eyes for half an instant, then dropped them again. She was aroused and painfully embarrassed. He had her; she was so naked before him. She could hardly take the suspense.
‘It’s going to be difficult for us to have a relationship if you can’t even look me in the face,’ Sam said gently.
Lisa breathed hard and forced herself to look at him. A wave of wanting swept her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
His dark eyes fastened on her. They drank in her face, then lowered, taking in every inch of her body. Lisa felt stripped naked, assessed. And not as a trophy wife or a social pawn. As a woman; with nothing to offer other than herself.
Sam reached out and put one hand under her chin, making her look at him. She reddened in the face. He smiled and pulled her to him, slowly but insistently. Lisa’s body was enfolded in his arms. She felt very slight, very slender, against the muscles of his chest and his thick biceps. She was emotional, shaking. This man had given up much for her. A whole life. He was protecting her from God knew what horrors. And now she was here, in his arms.
‘Ssh.’ He held her to him, calming her as though she were a skittish mare. ‘Stay here. Just relax. I’m not going to force myself on you, Lisa. This will happen if you want it to happen.’ He looked down at her and grinned, maddeningly confident. ‘And we both know you want it to happen. But I’m going to have to hear you admit it.’
‘Admit it?’ she managed.
‘Yeah. Admit you like me. You want me. You want me to make love to you. And you’re basically falling for me.’
‘You’re wrong for me,’ she muttered. ‘This is wrong. We shouldn’t.’
‘That’s right, we shouldn’t. But we’re still going to. Aren’t we?’
She couldn’t bear it. His blood, the warmth of it around her. The faint scent of sweat and his aftershave. The feel of his muscles and his chest. He was so masculine, she felt weak.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes . . . I don’t want to talk . . .’
‘Mmm. You fought this pretty hard.’ He was enjoying teasing her, and she hated herself for finding it erotic. Lisa pressed close, and felt him hard against her. He lowered his head, tightening his grip around her back, closing his mouth over hers. And this time, his tongue was insistent, probing, flicking. She half groaned in the back of her throat, surrendering to the kiss. Her tongue answering his, delicate, offering herself. His hands raised and caressed the sides of her throat, his thumb and forefinger sweeping lightly over her skin. Then his left hand moved to her belly, and lay there, open, feeling her hot and melting under his touch. Heat literally pulsed from her skin, where the blood was pooling . . .
And suddenly Sam thrust his hand under her T-shirt and unsnapped her bra, with what she knew was practised ease. Her breasts, freed, were warm and full in his hand, her nipples tight, hard as he caressed her; very subtly, not pawing at her, exploring her body, trying to give her pleasure. Lisa shook and arched under the touch. She reached down to her jeans, her hands shaking, but he stopped her.
‘I’ll do it.’ And he did; his hands undid her buttons, freed the jeans, tugged them halfway down her knees. Her panties clung to her; she was wet, like she hadn’t been in years. He slipped the T-shirt off over her head, tugged her bra aside. And now he was kneeling over her, staring at her body like he wanted to drink her in.
‘God. You’re stunning,’ he said, and his voice was thick with desire. Lisa felt it hit her like waves of heat coming from him.
‘I want to see you,’ she whispered. She reached for his shirt, but his left hand held her back.
‘Not yet.’ He stroked her, running his hands across her breasts, down to the flat of her stomach, then moving them to her hip bones, stroking down the sides of her haunches. Not touching her between the legs. Just feeling her thighs, her legs. Waves of heat crashed through her. Josh had never taken his time; with him she’d felt like an item on the to-do list. And the boyfriends before had fumbled and grabbed. Sam’s touch was assured. His eyes were on her like sex was just the start, as though they were together on the edge of a cliff, about to see if they could fly . . .
She gasped. He bent his head and kissed her, hard, on the slope of her breast. She felt his right leg pulling her jeans completely from her. His tongue was licking, circling at her skin. Lisa moaned and lifted her body a little, trying to angle it under his mouth. He was clothed still, and she was completely nude. She felt vulnerable, submissive, exposed. Sam was toying with her, and the eroticism of it was overpowering. Fumbling, she tugged at the waistband of his jeans, but her fingers were shaking. They were tight on his skin; she could feel rock-hard muscle
under the denim.
‘I thought about you,’ Sam said, and his voice was harsh with lust. ‘Ever since that night in the garden. I wanted you, even back then. You’re different from any girl I’ve ever known.’ He leaned down, undid his jeans, kicked them off. She grabbed awkwardly at his thin, long-sleeved T-shirt; it was Armani, a dark aubergine, and it clung to his muscles and picked out his eyes. Almost frightened, she pulled it off over his head. His body was tanned, developed, strong. Sculpted, like Italian marble. The thick muscles of his chest and biceps slid around under the skin.
He moved over her. She felt his hardness on top of her. He was looking into her eyes. His face lowered so his lips were millimetres from hers. Lisa opened her mouth in abject submission. She was burning up. He was the only thing she could think about.
‘I never took a woman that didn’t want it,’ Sam said, pressing his chest on hers.
‘Jesus.’ Lisa choked. ‘You don’t need to give me the manifesto.’
‘No. But I want to hear you say it. Explicitly.’
‘You want me to beg,’ she managed.
‘Yeah.’ His lips brushed tantalisingly over hers. ‘I want to hear you say it.’
Lisa squirmed. His hands stroked gently, patiently. He never touched anywhere important. It was teasing, sweet torture. His eyes above her said he knew what she was feeling. But he did not insist. He waited for her to say it.
‘I want you,’ she half choked. ‘I did from the beginning.’
Sam didn’t say anything. His body lowered on top of hers. And she opened to receive him.
His mouth locked on hers. His hand cupped her breast, caressing her. His legs moved in between hers, his knee thrusting her thighs apart. Lisa half reared under him, thrusting herself up to him. And as he kissed her, Sam took her, gently at first, then hard, deep . . . and her desire burst over her like a dam breaking, flooding her skin, waves of lust rushing to her groin, to her fingertips, to the top of her skull, and she moved with him, accepting him, his hands all over her, feeling every inch of her, and the sensations were so intense. It had never been like this with Josh, not once . . .
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